Black Orchid Blues (13 page)

Another reference to the Todd case. It stung. “That’s not fair.”

“But it’s true. You don’t like her. Fine. To do your job, you don’t have to.”

I forced myself to swallow my anger. While I had lost the fight to keep my story, I sure meant to have a say over who got it. I tried to sound reasonable: “Sam, please. She hasn’t earned the right to cover a story like this. Why not George Greene?”

“Greene’s good, but he’s distracted. His wife is expecting a baby any minute. I need somebody who’s going to give this story his all—just like you would—and that person is Selena.”

“But—”

“I repeat: decision’s made.”

We stared at one another for several long seconds. How could we have moved so quickly from a warm kiss to the coolness of this decision? He’d known what he was planning to do when I entered the office. He’d already been planning to take my story away when he held me in his arms. I felt so betrayed.

There was nothing left to say. I went to the door, grabbed the knob. “Blackie’s news conference starts in ten minutes. I’ll talk to Selena as soon as I get back.”

“You’ll talk to her now, and you’ll take her with you.”

Stung once more, I turned back. “This is wrong, Sam. Wrong.”

“It’s done.”

It took all my strength not to say what was on my mind. I left. Even did so without slamming his door. I was proud of that.

I strode past Selena’s desk. “Get your stuff. You’re coming with me. Now!”

C
HAPTER
18

I
hurried over to my desk and grabbed my hat. I was just swinging my coat over my shoulders when the telephone chirped. Although I was in a hurry, my hand went to it automatically. Before I could even say hello, a big voice boomed in my ear.

“Hello, dahling!
Comment ça va?
”

“Jack-a-Lee?” I was surprised to hear his voice. It wasn’t even noon yet. Like many denizens of the night, he rarely went to bed before five a.m. and usually slept his days away.

“I know, dahling. I’m stunned myself. I just couldn’t sleep.”

“No?”

“No. You see, ever since our little tête-à-tête, I’ve been wondering. How can I help Lanie? Hmm? Dear, sweet Lanie. And then it came to me. So utterly simple. And so appropriate.”

Selena sauntered over to me, her dark eyes furious at the way I’d spoken to her. She opened her mouth to say something but I held up a finger to shush her, then spoke into the phone. “I have to go. I have a—”

“Don’t rush me, dahling. Let me savor it. It isn’t every day that I get to help you, a star reporter, break a major case that not even the New York Police Department, with all of its frigging detectives, can crack.”

I covered the mouthpiece with my hand, held it away, and spoke to Selena: “Blackie’s starting a news conference over at the station. It’s about the Black Orchid kidnapping. You can go on over and I’ll meet you in a minute.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “You mean, I—”

“Yes. Go!”

She gave me a smirk and a knowing nod. “Finally, Sam realizes that you can’t cover shit.”

“And you’ll be deep in it if you don’t get going.”

She turned up her nose and trotted away with an air of self-importance. As soon as she was out of earshot, I removed my hand from the mouthpiece and put the phone back to my ear. Jack-a-Lee was still prattling on.

“… It’s so obvious they don’t know their asses from their elbows. But you, m’dear, are sharp as a ta—”

“Jack-a-Lee, what is this all about?”

“Why, I told you. I’m going to help you break this case wide open. And when you win whatever awards you people win, I want a front-row seat and my name featured prominently in your little acceptance speech.”

“You have thirty seconds. Then I’m hanging up.”

“Patience, dahling. I just want to confirm our little arrangement for next Friday’s ball. It’ll be a front-page photograph, hmmm? Just like you promised. I have the most luscious outfit. I’m sure to win top prize. You’ll die when you see it. Trust me, this’ll be one costume they’ll remember. I’ve just about outdone myself.”

“I’m hanging up
now
.”

“All right! All right!” He gave an exasperated sigh. “I’ve done what no one else could do, would have even dared think to do.” He paused dramatically.

I said nothing.

He sucked his teeth. “I tell you, Lanie. You are turning into a—”

“Jack-a-Lee! One, two, three—”

“Okay, okay! I have set up a meeting between you and … guess who?”

I straightened up. “Olmo? You’ve found Olmo?”

“Hell no! Much better than that. I’ve set you up with the man himself.”

“Stax Murphy?” I dropped down in my chair and lowered my voice to an intense whisper. “You got me an appointment with Stax Murphy?”

“I sure did.”

“How did you …? You said—”

“I’m a miracle worker. What can I say?”

“Oh, Jack-a-Lee, thank you—”

“Save the gratitude for later. You’ve got to get a move on.”

“Why? When is it?”

“Now.”

“What?”

“He’s sending a car for you. Look for a black Packard. It should be pulling up downstairs in front of your office building door …” he paused and hummed, “in exactly two minutes.”

“But—”

“Like I said, no need to thank me, dahling. I know I’m wonderful. Get going. If you’re not there when they pull up, they won’t stop. Play nice, have fun, and toodle-loo. I’ll see you at the ball.”

Then he was gone. I hung up and sat for a second. Was I going to do this? Was I really going to meet with Stax Murphy? On my own, with no backup? My gaze roamed around at the newsroom, not really seeing anything.

Yes, I was.

I grabbed a sheet of paper, thinking I should type a note. But words failed me. If this didn’t work out, they wouldn’t know where to find me anyway. Meanwhile, I could be missing my ride.

Ignoring the elevator, I slammed through the door leading to the stairway and rushed down the stairs. I really should’ve left a message, told someone what I was up to. But there was no time.

No time.

They had planned it that way. Timed it so that I wouldn’t be able to notify anyone or set up an ambush. Timed it so I wouldn’t have time to think.

Then again, if I had said something, Sam wouldn’t have let me go. I put thoughts of him aside.

Why did Murphy want to see me? Was this a trap? Had he heard that I was looking for him and now considered me a danger? Did he want to silence me? Why hadn’t I asked Jack-a-Lee what he’d told Stax Murphy?

No time, that’s why.

My heart was pounding when I got downstairs. I sprinted across the lobby just in time to see a black Packard ease past the front door. It was the kind of large, ostentatious car that told the world you had dough. I caught up to it and banged on the front passenger window. The man inside glanced up and the car slowed to a stop.

I stepped back as the door flew open. A heavyset man emerged. He wore a long, black coat and a fedora pulled down to one side, obscuring most of his face.

The build, the clothing: his resemblance to the kidnapper was so strong that bolts of fear shot through me. But there was a sense of exhilaration too. I was on the right track. This wasn’t the Black Orchid’s kidnapper, but he wore his uniform.

He was a branch from the same tree.

C
HAPTER
19

H
e forced me into the backseat. Another large man waited inside. Within seconds, I was cuffed and blindfolded. The cuffs were heavy. They weren’t tight, just cold, and at least they’d cuffed me with my hands to the front.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

They said nothing.

“Are we going far?” I asked.

They said nothing.

Suppose this
was
a trap? Was Jack-a-Lee really just a convenient go-between, or was he working for Stax? He’d given me Olmo’s name. He wouldn’t have done that if he’d been working for Stax, would he? Maybe that’s it. He’d asked around, gotten too close, and now Stax had him. Maybe he’d made the call under duress. But no, he hadn’t sounded nervous. He’d sounded just fine.

I tried to clear my head. These men who picked me up had not been rough, simply efficient and silent. Their demeanor revealed nothing about Stax’s intent.

If Stax meant to kill me, then what would I do? What
could
I do? Panic surged through me once again. What in the world had I been thinking? Getting into a car with some strange men, heading off to see a kidnapper—a killer—with no word to Sam or the newspaper. Yes, Jack-a-Lee knew, but if something went wrong, he wouldn’t open his mouth.

There was nothing I could do about it now. And truth be told, I would have done the same if I had it to do all over again.

Stax could have only two possible motives in wanting to meet—to find out what I knew and then kill me, or to find out what I believed and then persuade me otherwise.

The car swung sharply to the left and I swayed in the other direction. After a series of sudden turns, I gave up trying to keep track of the rights and lefts; there were too many. I couldn’t tell how long we drove in any one direction, either. I tried to listen for indicative sounds, but the windows were rolled up, sealing out everything but my own breathing. All I could say with certainty was that the drive wasn’t long, no more than five minutes or so.

We rolled to a stop. I heard the front passenger door open, then mine. The dank smell of the river hit me.

“Get out!” a rough male voice said.

I stumbled out of the car. A chilling breeze slapped me in the face. It scissored around my ankles and I heard the rumble of metal doors opening. Strong hands gripped me by the elbow on either side. Hard voices warned me of steps, then dragged me up five metal stairs. I tripped over an iron bar on the floor at the top, in what must have been the doorway. They caught me and led me inside, then the doors closed behind me with a hollow clang. I sensed that I was in some expansive, empty space, a warehouse, perhaps. But with the blindfold, I could see nothing.

The hands guided me forward a few steps before one of the men said, “Hold it.”

I heard another door open. There was a bang at my feet. A disgusting smell, of fecal matter, of rot and mildew, wafted up.

“The stairs are right in front of you,” a voice said. He was to my left, behind me. “There’s about twenty of them. One of us is already in front. I’ll be in back. Go slow and you won’t trip.”

“Can’t you take the blindfold off?”

No answer. Just a light but firm pressure at the base of my spine, the prod of a gun muzzle. Tentatively, I put one foot forward, seeking that first step. I found it and eased down. Every step felt as though I were hanging out into the middle of nowhere. I would take a step with my right foot and then bring my left foot down next to it. I managed to get down three stairs this way. Then my right heel caught and I pitched forward. The henchman in front caught me and straightened me up.

By this time, I was terrified. “Please, undo the blindfold. It’ll take forever for me to get down otherwise.”

No answer. Then came a voice that seemed to float up from the pits of hell, strong, vibrant, echoing: “Take off the cuffs.”

“But—”

“Uncuff her, I said.”

There was a pause, then my hands were yanked around. A hand gripped one wrist while another inserted a key. The cuffs fell away and I rubbed my wrists with relief.

The voice below me said, “There is a railing to your right.”

The man behind me gave a little shove and I grabbed for the railing. I made my way down, and I counted:
one, two, three …
When I got to twelve, my nose had gotten used to the smell, somewhat. But now I felt it on my skin, a dirty thickness in the air.

I heard two sets of footsteps going back up the stairs and then a heavy thud, the sound of the trapdoor being latched. An animal presence, watchful and potentially lethal, moved around in the dark. Was I was now alone with Stax Murphy, a man that not even the NYPD had been able to track down? I could hear the pattern of feet treading on the gravel floor in front of me.

“Mr. Murphy?”

“Yes?”

“May I remove the blindfold?”

“Yes.”

I pushed it back over my head, blinked, and rubbed my eyes. I was definitely in some kind of warehouse basement, probably over by the Hudson River. It was cavernous and mostly empty. I took it in before turning my attention to my host for the evening.

He was tall and well-dressed in a dark gray cashmere coat, his silver hair brushed straight back in a perfect conk partly concealed under a fedora. A banker in the world of organized crime, he actually resembled a banker from Wall Street. His features were chiseled, lean, and clean-shaven. He was in his fifties, had a strong, bent nose, fleshy lips, and nearly black almond-shaped eyes. Familiar eyes. The same eyes that had stared at me from behind the barrel of a gun.

“Do I measure up?” he asked.

“To what?”

“Your expectations.”

“I didn’t have any.”

“Of course you did.”

He leaned against a pillar, his arms folded across his chest, and observed me carefully. “According to the paper, you were there,” he said. “At the kidnapping. You saw everything.”

“You already know that. Your man must’ve told you.”

“Forget about him—”

“So you admit that you—”

“I admit nothing.” He straightened up, put his hands behind his back, and walked in a slow circle around me. “I want you to tell me everything, every detail you can recall, about what this kidnapper said and did.”

This wasn’t what I’d expected, not at all. “You don’t know? But you sent him.”

“I said, tell me what you saw, what he said.”

And so I did.

He listened without interrupting, then asked another question: “The police, they have a portrait: they did it with your help?”

“Yes.”

“And is it accurate?”

“Very.”

He stared hard at me. He found another chair, dragged it across the floor, turned it backward, and straddled it.

“I had nothing to do with it, any of it,” he said.

So this was the “persuade otherwise” option. I felt certain relief. Not much, but some.